Chapter Twelve: A New Role as Supervisor

I stood within the dim confines of the mine shaft, distant whispers from the white-robed soldiers and the nearby guards flowing in hurried, hushed tones. Their voices were low and urgent. Squinting, I strained to catch the key fragments amidst their broken sentences—the name Sunfire City, distant yet familiar, now felt like a heavy stone pressing upon my heart.

“A few days ago, a condemned prisoner was taken away…” one guard lowered his voice, eyes darting nervously around, fearing discovery for spreading such news.

“Indeed. A group of black-clad rescuers was executed on the spot; their bodies hung outside the city gates,” another white-robed soldier chimed in, a faint trace of regret barely perceptible in his tone. “Among them was a rather famous gladiator named Akso!”

“Akso?” The name struck my soul like a bolt of lightning. I jerked my head up, my expression frozen, mouth slightly agape, eyes filled with disbelief and terror. “Their bodies hung outside the city gates?” My hands clenched into fists involuntarily, nails digging deep into my palms, yet I felt no pain.

“Count Isaac placed a bounty—someone named Tiel, they say. Ten gold bars for his head,” the guard’s words cut into my heart like a sharp blade. I was stunned, my body trembling uncontrollably, lips quivering, barely able to utter a sound.

Guilt and remorse surged within me like a raging flood. “I deserve to die! I have once again caused the deaths of good people.” I closed my eyes; tears welled up, stubbornly refusing to fall.

“I’m such a failure! I hate my own weakness and incompetence, hate that I always drag others down.”

Unable to bear the torment within, I suddenly swung the pickaxe in my hand with all my might against the rock before me. The dull clash echoed like a scream of my bottled-up rage. Over and over, I struck as if exhausting the very last ounce of my life, determined to shatter this mountain and release all the pain and regret within.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, dripping onto the stone, instantly swallowed by dust. Dirt and sweat smeared my face, contorted in a grimace, yet one thought dominated my heart: I must grow stronger. For myself, for those who died because of me, I must seek justice!

But then, I bowed my head again in silence. Though my wounds had long since healed, now I was consumed only by furious rage.

I sank once more into that hollow existence, living day after day as a mere shell, laboring in the mines until utterly exhausted, swallowed by endless darkness. Those days were a mechanical repetition—no hope, no future.

One day, a few slaves gathered quietly, their eyes burning with resolute light. I sensed something was amiss, a premonition that a turning point was near.

“We can’t go on like this. This isn’t life!” one slave whispered fiercely.

“Yes, we must fight back! Ambush that white-robed soldier, take him hostage, and escape this cursed place!” another clenched his fist, determination shining in his eyes.

Their plan quickly unfolded. Taking advantage of the white-robed soldiers’ unawareness, several slaves launched a sudden attack. Chaos erupted instantly.

At that moment, I charged forward, my figure ghostlike, appearing before the slaves in an instant. They stared at me in shock, scarcely believing I would show up now.

I struck swiftly and fiercely, every move precise and deadly. Though brave, those slaves were no match for me. In a few rounds, five or six were all subdued.

The guards were shaken, staring at me with wide eyes. The white-robed soldier I had saved trembled uncontrollably—he had never imagined a mere slave could wield such power.

“Who… who are you?” the soldier stammered, his face still marked by terror.

I smiled faintly, saying nothing more. I cast a cold glance before turning and walking away.

The next day, the white-robed soldier found me. His face was unreadable as he held out a pristine overseer’s uniform.

“From today onward, you are no longer a slave, but my overseer,” he said coolly.

I took the uniform, a complex wave of emotions swelling inside. From this moment, my fate would change completely. No longer a victim to be slaughtered, I had become an overseer wielding the whip.

The uniform was modest, yet it bestowed a newfound dignity. Clutching the whip, its tip quivered slightly in the air, whispering of a shift in power. I walked into the mines, each step heavy yet resolute.

I was no longer the despised slave trembling under blows. Now, I was the oppressor—the very role that once filled me with fear and hatred. A strange mix of relief and guilt stirred within me.

The slaves glanced at me with fear and unease, heads bowed, hastening their work to avoid becoming the next target of my whip.

I raised the whip, tracing an arc through the air before striking sharply. The whip cracked against a slave’s back, a sharp snap echoing. The slave shuddered in pain but dared not utter a sound. A twisted, vengeful smile crept across my lips.

“Move faster! No slacking off!” I shouted, my voice ringing through the mine. With each swing, I unleashed all the fury of past humiliation and suffering upon them.

Yet seeing their fearful eyes and battered bodies, a hollow satisfaction mingled with emptiness welled within me. The whip did not cease its flight, slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

Now, standing in the vast training ground of the royal castle, the blazing sun made armor gleam brilliantly, while my heart wrestled with indescribable complexity.

Because of my ruthless discipline, the slaves in charge of the ore had become industrious yet cowering, their eyes laden with terror, fearing that a single displeasing glance would bring down the whip’s wrath. Whenever I recalled their trembling beneath the lash, a cold smile involuntarily flickered on my lips—one tinged with bitterness even I could not explain.

The white-robed soldier, once an untouchable figure in my eyes, now regarded me with favor for my “accomplishments.” He admired my methods of slave management, his eyes always gleaming with approval.

The surge in mine output finally caught the attention of Captain Xis of the Royal Iron Guard. Promoted to the castle’s left front commander, he brought me along as part of his spoils, integrating me into the prestigious Iron Guard.

One day, Captain Xis stood at the center of the training ground, his voice booming and clear, cutting through the air: “Soldiers, during today’s interval, we shall engage in real combat drills to enhance your responsiveness!” As his words fell, the soldiers shifted eagerly, a mixture of excitement and tension on their faces.

I stood aside, gripping my sword tightly, nerves stirring within me. The white-robed soldier approached, patting my shoulder with a raised brow and an unmistakably commanding tone: “Here, the weak are weeded out. Remember, you’re my protégé—don’t disgrace me!”

I met his encouraging gaze, a cold smile flickering at the corner of my mouth, eyes sharp with resolve: “Understood, sir.”

Nodding, a surge of unexplainable strength filled me. The training began. Soldiers paired off, swords flashing, shouts rising.

When my turn came, I faced a burly opponent, his eyes brimming with challenge.

I drew a deep breath, my gaze growing cold and detached. The battle was about to begin...